Just For A Handful Of

That We Devote Ourselves To God, Is Seen In Living Just As Though No God There Were.

God Is The Perfect Poet, Who In His Person Acts His Own Creations.

Though Rome's Gross Yoke Drops Off, No More To Be Endured, Her Teaching Is Not So Obscured By Errors And Perversities, That No Truth Shines Athwart The Lies.

Thou Art My Single Day, God Lends To Leaven What Were All Earth Else, With A Feel Of Heaven.

Imperfection Means Perfection Hid.